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MEADOW MELODIES 



BY 



CHARLES F. GERRY 



33 



ILL USTRA TED 




BOSTON 

LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS 

10 MILK STREET NEXT OLD SOUTH MEETING-HOUSE 
1887 



-J^ i^'^1 



Copyright, 1887, by 
CHARLES C. GERRY 



Electrotyped and Printed under the Direction of 
F. F. GERRY 



Press of Berwick and Smith 



^ 



TO 



MY CHILDREN 



CONTENTS 



A Day on the Sudburv River Meadows 

The Bluebird .... 

A May-day Ramble 

A Day in Early Hay-time 

The Scarecrow 

A Morning in Spring 

Hunting Birds' Nests 

Dedication Ode 

The Lincoln Boys 

The Old Homestead 

Katie ..... 

The Tryst of College Days 

Fishing for Pouts 

Grandmother's Garden 

In the Old Barn 

The Drought of 1873 

Paul Brown 

Our Little Boy 

Then and Now . 

In my Hammock 

Autumn 

The Robins have Come 



PAGE 
13 
19 
21 

23 
27 

30 

32 

35 
37 
41 
43 
46 
48 
50 
52 
54 
56 

59 
61 

63 
65 

67 



CONTENTS. 








PAGE 


Memories , , . . 






69 


Grandmother 








71 


Madeline 








73 


The Butterfly and Ant 








75 


Jessie Earle 








n 


The Fireside Dream 








79 


The Ploughboy . 








82 


Reveries 








84 


Reunion Poem 








^7 


The Forest 








90 


Midsummer Haying 








92 


The Yellow Wasp's Nest 








95 


Song of the Frogs 








97 


The Convalescent 








99 


Uncle Nathan 








lOI 


Halcyon Days 








103 


In Memoriam 








106 


Sunshine 








108 


Have Charity 








109 


Suspense 








no 


Pantry School . 








112 


Childhood's Throne 








115 


The Partial Judge 








117 


The Geniting Tree 








119 


Album Brieflets 








121 


Onward 








123 



ILLUSTRATIONS 





PAGE 


Frontispiece .... 




TJie Last Load ..... 


23 


Grinding a Novel Grist .... 


38 


Results ...... 


39 


The Old Barn ..... 


52 


Home of the Robins .... 


67 


Lniicheoii Time ..... 


82 


The Yellozu Wasp's Nest 


96 


Pantry School . . . = . 


113 



Meadow Melodies. 



A DAY ON THE SUDBURY RIVER MEADOWS. 

The clouds drift slowly o'er the sky, 

But dense and black to westward lie, 

Assuring with the east wand's chill 

A splendid day for pickerel. 

With early breakfast, off we tramp 

Through woods, green fields, and pastures damp. 

Till on a gentle height we stand 

And view^ the weaving meadow land. 

The river gained, we launch our boat 

And slowly down its current float. 

On every hand the flattened mound 

Reminds us of the muskrat's ground : 

While button bush and tall grass hide 

The small lagoons that lay outside, 

Where wild ducks in the fading light 

Seek shelter through the summer night. 

And on the borders gaily swings 

The blackbird with his scarlet wings. 

Beyond in lowest meadow lands 

Some inches deep the water stands. 

Where bitterns in the early day 

13 



A Day on the Siidburv River Meadows. 

The words "plum pudd'n" plainly say, 

Arising oft with awkward flight 

To seek new shelter out of sight. 

We idly drift adown the stream, 

Half lost in a delicious dream. 

Till, roused, we tish on either shore, 

Slow moving with a silent oar, — 

Now trolling with the greatest heed 

Through lily pads and pickerel weed. 

Until a whirlpool near is seen 

Beside a floating mass of green. 

The bait moves oft^ with race-horse speed, 

And, down beside a quivering reed, 

Is swallowed with a gourmand's orreed. 

A twitch sends through my frame a thrill,— 

The hook is fast in the red-fringed gill 

Of a steel and gold-hued pickerel, 

And drawn aboard with hearty wiP 

And, as we view him o'er and o'er, 

About his weight we speculate. 

But set him at a pound or more 

And vainly try to catch his mate. 

Then onward row, new fields to glean, 

Seeking with vision doubly keen 

For every spot to drop our bait. 

Where hungry pickerel silent wait. 

We troll until the sun breaks through 

The clouds and dries the meadow dew; 

And then within our well-filled creel 

A satisfying look we steal. 

H 



A Day on the Sudbury River Meadows. 

'Tis dinner time, and back we row, 

Our pulses high, our cheeks aglow 

With keen excitement of the day, 

And build a hre the Indian way. 

The fish are dressed, with salt applied, 

And in the pan lay side by side. 

And sputter loud w^hile being fried. 

Meanwhile upon a napkin spread. 

Are crackers, cheese, and home-made bread, 

While water from a meadow spring 

With hasty steps I quickly bring. 

The dainty meal so rare and sweet 

With relish keen we quickly eat ; 

Using our hands for knife and fork. 

With very little table talk. 

As appetites so keenly whet 

Banish the thought of etiquette. 

Our savory dinner at an end, 
I sit me down an hour to spend 
Beneath the willow's green arcade. 
Where rests the noontide's cooling shade. 
With distant stretch of meadow view 
Hemmed in by sky of misty blue 
And wooded heights of purplish hue. 
In early summer verdure dressed, 
Fair Goodman's hill looms up to west, 
Upon whose sloping sides serene 
The cattle in the shade are seen. 
And checkered fields of brown and green. 
15 



A Day on the Siidhurv River Afeadoivs. 

Near bv the Old Ilaynes Garrison 

Is basking in the noonday sun 

An ancient landmark in decay, 

Reminder of King Philip's day. 

Southeast the Wayland village stands, 

Down sloping to the meadow lands, 

With generous grow^th of spreading trees, 

Through whose green leaves the summer breeze 

Makes music like the hum of bees ; 

While, in the background, green hills lie 

Like battlements against the sky. 

But rested from the morning's sport. 
Again we quickly leave the port 
And glide adown the stream to try 
Our fortune with the smaller fry. 
The turtles on the banks to sun 
Have climbed, but vanish one by one. 
While dragon-flies with colors gay 
Adorn the pads that skirt our way. 
Arriving at the fishing goal. 
We fasten to an alder pole. 
Then rig our lines and cast them in, 
When spiteful nibblings soon begin. 
A moment, and the hooks are bare ; 
The next, a shiner cleaves the air 
With silver-spangled coat of mail, 
A rare bait for a pickerel trail. 
Anon I disengage the prize, 
And with my hook in worm disguise 
i6 



A Day on the Sudburv River Mcadozus. 

Soon draw from out the placid stream 

My childhood's pet, the sunn}- bream, 

Whose gravell}' nests I'll ne'er forget 

On shores of dear old Assabet, 

Where, oft, within some beached retreat, 

Her waters laved my willing feet. 

The sun is low, but still we wait 

For perch to take the tempting bait. 

And soon secure a noble one 

Whose sides gleam in the setting sun ; 

Another and another still ; 

'Twill take not longr our creel to fill. 

The sun, just sinking out of sight 

Upon the crimson couch of night, 

Suffuses all the west with light. 

The white-sleeved farmers on the shores 

Have left the fields to do their chores, 

And Co! Co! Co! distinct and clear 

Is heard upon the hillsides near, 

While at the open barn-yard gate 

The ruddy milkers patient wait. 

Not yet has ceased the robin's trill 

In apple orchard on the hill, 

And far away in forest drear. 

The song of whippoorwill I hear. 

As darkness of the night steals on, 

The pleasant home-lights one by one. 

Gleam out through clustering vines and trees. 

And twinkle with the stirring breeze ; 

While o'er the meadows dark and damp, 

17 



A Dax on the Sndbnry River Meadozus. 

The fire-fly lights his cheerful lamp. 
Along the stream a fog-bank lies, 
And far to eastward greets our eyes 
The moon, as up the Weston hills 
She wheels and soon the valley fills 
With shadows weird, while far away 
A cloud obscures the lingering day, 
Along whose crests the lightnings play. 
Again on shore we homeward steer, 
While muttering thunders greet the ear ; 
And soon, secure from dews and damp, 
Are seated round the evening lamp. 
Recounting, as our tea is quaffed, 
The joyous scenes of river craft. 



i8 



THE BLUEBIRD. 

'Tis early spring ; the distant hills 
Are flecked with drifts of dingy snow, 
And bird-notes from the lofty trees 
Come down in warblings soft and low. 

The bluebird seeks his home again, 
He sings sweet love-songs to his mate ; 
They choose the dear old apple-tree 
Whose branches shade our garden-gate. 

One door, one window, in their cot ; 
All else is safe from wind and rain ; 
The ruffled nest of former years 
Is soon made new and warm again. 

And now I watch with keen delight 
This shady home so near our door. 
Till busy parents come to bring 
Their dainties to the fledglings four. 

19 



The Bluebird. 

How sweet to climb the bended trunk, 
To gaze upon the tiny brood. 
And see four Httle gaping mouths 
Upraised imploringly for food! 

Dear warblers of my early years! 
A child again, once more I w^ait, 
And watch you in the apple-tree 
Whose branches shade our garden-gate. 



20 



A MAY-DAY RAMBLE. 

We found the modest flowers of May 
Intwined with leaves and mosses, 

And dainty fingers fashioned them 
In fragrant wreaths and crosses. 

I shall not soon forget the day 

When all the school went Maying, 

Nor flowers few that met om" gaze 
While through the pastures straying. 

We rather sought for human flowers 

To meet our high ideal ; 
And fancies of that bright spring-time 

To-day are strangely real. 

The birds on every wayside hedge 
Poured forth their songs of greeting, 

And, on the southern pasture slopes. 
Were heard the young lambs bleating 

21 



A May-Day Ramble. 

Our children now, like olive plants, 

Are growing up around us, 
And sweet it is to point them where 

That happy May-day found us. 

Each year, when merry spring-time comes, 
Its birds and blossoms bringing, 

I seem to hear the same glad notes 
Through old-time valleys ringing. 

And may the sweet strains never cease. 
Nor lose their mystic measure, 

Till blent in songs of ecstasy 

That greet at heaven's embrasure. 



22 




A DAY IN EARLY HAY-TIME. 



Small watery clouds begin to rise 
Before the midday hour, 

And beaded drops on water-jars 
Foretell an early shower. 
23 



A Day in Early I lay- Time. 

The house-dog seeks his favorite grass 

While coming down the lane, 
And tree-toads in the poplar boughs 

Are prophesying rain. 

The quail since early morning hours 
Has piped his song "More wet!" 

And cuckoos in the maple grove 
Are singing "Cuckoo!" yet. 

The mower drops his scythe, and wipes 

The sweat from off his brow ; 
Two loads of choicest clover hay 

Are ready for che mow. 

"Be quick and get the ox-team, John! 

Frank, harness up Old Gray! 
And James, you leave off spreading swaths, 

And tumble up the hay." 

A dark cloud with its watery folds 

Now meets the farmer's eye, 
And mutterings indistinct are heard 

Along the western sky. 

Soon John comes shouting to the field, 
"Get up Old Star! gee, Bright!" 

And in the loading, Farmer Day 
Is almost lost to sight. 

The hay goes on the rick so fast 
That John cries, "Father, stop, 
24 



A Day in Early Hay- Time, 

And let me lay the corners out 
And bind them at the top!" 

"Be quick then, for the shower is nigh! 

'Twill never do to let 
This clover hay, so sweet and dry, 

Be spoilt by getting wet!" 

And, standing in the grateful shade 

Beneath the apple-bough. 
The farmer wipes the sweat again 

From off his heated brow. 

One load is safely in the barn, 

And one upon the wain. 
While just across the meadow-lot 

Comes on the drifting rain. 

A large drop falls upon the hat, 

Another on the hand, 
And now the tempest wildly breaks 

Upon the thirsty land. 

The other load is in, hurrah! 

And ranged along the bay, 
The men and boys lie stretched at ease 

Upon the new-mown hay. 

The sun in splendor breaks again 

Upon the waiting eye, 
And lo! a painted bow appears 

And spans the eastern sky! 

25 



A Day in Early Hay- Time. 

And Farmer Day in evening prayer 
Thanks God with hearty praise 

For vernal sun, and summer rain. 
And plenteous harvest days. 



26 



THE SCARECROW. 

"The crows are pullin' up the corn 
Upon the plain,'* said Deacon Gore: 
"A hundud hills already gone; 
We'll try the skeercrow plan once more. 

••John, run and bring my trainin' suit. 
An' with it fetch my bell-topped hat : 
Rig up the old chap ra'al cute 
An' make him perty middlin' fat. 

'•An' I'll load up the old French gun — 
Six fingers! wun't it make some noise! 
We'll hev a leetle extry fun," 
He said wdth chuckle to the boys. 

When night came on with sable reign, 
They harnessed up the old white mare 
And bore the image to the plain, 
Arranging it with greatest care. 

27 



The Scarecrozu. 

And then sought out a place to hide, 
The next day, ere the morning's dawn 
Should call the parents to provide 
Their callow young with stolen corn. 

And sure enough, before the crows. 
The Deacon and his boys were there ; 
Nor waited long to hear their foes 
With angry cawings fill the air. 

At first they circled very high, 
Then lower dropped but cautiously, 
Until a sentinel near by 
Was stationed on an apple-tree. 

The boys peered through the mossy wall, 
Then held their sides with mirth suppressed, 
One crow was pulling at a scrawl 
Of hair outside the scarecrow's vest. 

Two others on the ground below 
Were cackling in a saucy way ; 
The Deacon saw the hated foe 
And cocked his gun without delay. 

Kerwhang!!! and dust and feathers flew, 
While echoes answered far and wide ; 
The Deacon hastily withdrew 
In manner not so dignified. 

A grand display of shooting stars 
He saw, but with supreme disgust, 
28 



The Scarccroiu. 

While shouts were heard mid loud hurras 
"By Jinks! the old shebang has bust." 

The boys hung up the lifeless crows 
All torn and riddled with the shot, 
While Deacon Gore with bloody nose 
Limped homeward talking of the plot. 

"I bought that gun of Ensign Clay 
Some forty years ago or more, 
But never knew the derned thing play 
Me sich a tarnal trick afore!" 

The secret — so the story ran — 

Was this : — The load at tirst was large, — 

But afterwards the hired man 

Put in another rousing charge. 



29 



A MORNING IN SPRING. 

'Tis beautiful morning, the air is all vocal 

With music of birds in the orchard begun ; 

While pasture and meadow are beaded with dew-drops, 

And waiting to flash back the rays of the sun. 

The swallow is skimming the still, misty lakelet. 
Reposing in beauty beside the old wood. 
Now dimpling its surface to sip the sweet bev'rage, 
Now snatching the newly-fledged gnat for his food. 

The sun rising slowly is bathing the hill-tops 
With glory all golden, in morning's fresh prime : 
Now gilding the Mavis that sings on the walnut 
His sweet measured song of the new planting time. 

It steals through the shutters, awaking a sleeper. 
And tinges his curls with the morning's bright gold, 
Who laughing and cooing, with fists full of dimples, 
Is striving the beautiful sunbeam to hold. 

30 



A Morning in Spring. 

The lowing of cattle, returning fond answers 
Is heard in response to the cries of their young; 
They yearn to impart the sweet life-giving treasure, 
And lovingly fondle awhile with the tongue. 

The sun rises higher, and all the broad landscape 
Is studded with diamonds, radiant with light! 
O! who can behold such a vision of beauty 
Without breathing thanks for the beautiful sight! 



31 



HUNTING BIRDS' NESTS. 

Rare the fun of hunting birds' nests 

In the early days of June, 

When the groves are filled with fragrance, 

And the soul is all in tune 

With the singing of the builders, 

With the whispering of the leaves, 

With the twitter of the swallow 

In his nest beneath the eaves. 

Through the orchards we are roaming 
Of the robin's home in quest, 
And within some last year's sproutings 
Soon behold a mud-thatched nest, 
With a brown head raised above it. 
Gazing with an anxious eye ; 
While the master of the mansion 
Scolds with great anxiety. 
32 



Hunting Birds' Nests. 

Just above us sings the bluebird 
Softly as in early Spring, 
Emphasizing every measure 
With a quivering of wing; 
He is singing to his nestlings 
In a hollow tree near by ; 
Now he bears a dainty morsel 
And is heard their teasing cry. 

From the meadow fresh with verdure 
Comes the song of bobolink, 
Rich in merry semiquavers 
And its endless "tink la tink" ; 
Now he swings on bending sedges. 
O'er the cool brook's silent flow. 
Mirroring his dainty plumage, 
In the crystal depths below. 

Homeward, through an old road strolling 
Fringed with sumac, birch, and fern, 
Many nests of tuneful builders 
Greet the eye at every turn ; 
Some depend from lofty branches, 
Some with callow heads in view. 
Others hid in leafy coverts 
Graced with eggs of varying hue. 

At the fording-place while waiting. 
Many swallows come and go, 
Bearing mortar for their dwellings 
In the ancient roof-tree low, 
33 



Hunting Birds' JVcsts. 



And with bare feet long we linger 
Dallying with the waters sweet, 
As thev ripple o'er the pebbles 
Tempered with the vernal heat. 

Nearing home, the sun at setting 
Crimsons all the western sky. 
Lighting up the cloud-bar edges 
With its tints of rainbow dye ; 
Followed by the evening twilight 
Purpling every vale and hill, 
Heralding a wondrous chorus 
Blent with song of whippoorwill. 



34 



DEDICATION ODE. 

Read at the Dedication of the Town Pump at 
Hyde Park, July 4th., 1876. 

A Hundred years ago to-day 

0\xx fathers struck for broader sway, 

Displeased with Britain's ruling ; 
We seek a boon as precious quite, 
To break the bonds of appetite 
With drink that's ever cooling. 

Then take the cup that nature brews 
And sends to earth in rains and dews 

No beverage sweeter, — purer; 
'Twill give a'ou joy and length of days 
And lead your feet in wisdom's ways 

And make lite's mission surer. 

35 



Dedication Ode. 

Come, traveller on the dusty way, 
And slake your thirst as here you may, 

Without the fearful slaughter 
That alcohol is sure to bring ; 
We urge a drink that leaves no sting, 

'Tis healthful, sparkling water. 

May ever from this fountain go 

A cooling stream whose gentle flow 

Shall all our borders gladden ; 
Till pleasant homes in this fair land 
Shall greet the eye on every hand 

With nought of woe to sadden. 

Long wave the flag that floats above, 
Inscribed upon whose folds is love 

To every son and daughter; 
Then let us all our goblets fill 
And drink its health, with hearty will, 

In bumpers of cold water. 

A century hence, when granite walls 
Imposing stand, and antique halls. 

In this then ancient city, 
A wish that temperance may abound, 
And peace and harmony be found, 

I'd breathe in this short ditty. 



36 



THE LINCOLN BOYS. 

In boyhood days, no rarer fun 

Was left for me when chores were done, 

Than hstening by the kitchen fire, 

To stories of my old Grandsire, 

Of "Lincoln boys" he used to know, 

Some seventy years, or more, ago. 

One trick of theirs, at present time 
ril try to sketch in simple rhyme. 
New shoes were bought for all one day, 
Of Brown, the cobbler, o'er the way, 
With this remark, "Now boys we'll see 
Who'll wear them longest, you or me ;" 
For somehow, always, ugly holes 
Were quickly worn in all their soles. 

37 



The Lincoln Boys. 

From underneath his broad-brimmed hat, 
He saw them wink, and "smek a rat." 
So next day, coming home before 
The boys expected, from the store, 
He started for the cider mill, 
And saw within, Dick, Jake, and Bill, 
All hard at work in grinding down 
The shoes, so lately bought of Brown. 




A smell of leather greets his nose, 
As nearer to the scene he goes. 
Within, a picture sad he views. 
For there he sees his last new shoes. 
With soles ground down to very quick, 
And left not mor'n a sixpence thick. 
The mischief done was so complete, 
He thought he'd make a sly retreat, 
And settle matters by and by, 
38 



The Lincoln Boys. 

When pulse wa'nt running quite so high ; 
But heard while lingering by the fence, 
Some queer remarks at his expense. 

Three weeks or so from this, as sire 
And sons were round the kitchen fire, 
While apples sputtered on the hearth, 
And nuts were cracked, and hearty laugh 
Was heard above the north-wind's roar. 
As snow-drifts deepened round the door. 
Young Jake cried out in feigned surprise 
With wonder lurking in his eyes, 




"Bill, just look here and see the holes 
That father's worn in both his soles!" 
And quick as thought both Bill and Dick 
Were kneeling on the old hearth-brick. 
To view the shoes which now their sire 
Was drying by the blazing fire. 
Z9 



The Lincoln Boys. 

"You've saved it this time, boys, but mind, 
Ef luther grist agin you grind. 
Don't leave the fragrant toll behind." 

He knew the trick too well, they found 
And sideway glances passed around. 
They keenly felt his sharp reply. 
And, as the hour of sleep was nigh. 
The rogues began to gape and said, 
They guessed 'twas time to go to bed ; 
But while undressing in the cold, 
They muttered loud the one word "5c/(^." 



40 



THE OLD HOMESTEAD. 

A LARGE brown house, with rambhng rooms, 

On waving meadows facing ; 
A noble tree with loving arms. 

Its eastern side embracing-. 

In front, on greensward sloping south, 

Are happy children playing ; 
And, in the field across the road, 

The men and boys are haying. 

On "pasture-hill," in shadows cool. 

The cows are idly chewing; 
"Old Sorrel" standing by the fence. 

The green corn fondly viewing. 

By Landham Brook in meadows green, 

I see the fisher strolling, 
And many a lusty pickerel seeks 

The tempting bait he's trolling. 

41 



The Old Homestead. 

To West, on Nobscot's wooded height, 

A cap of mist I'm viewing ; 
The farmer trims the hay-cocks well, 

He knows a storm is brewing. 

And far away, at day's decline, 

My eyes o'er green hills roaming, 

I see Wachusett's crown of blue 

Tower upward through the gloaming. 

The cows come home, with beverage sweet 
From swollen udders dropping ; 

Now lowing for the milker's pail. 

And now the young grass cropping. 

The work is done, and supper waits 
With Hyson wreaths ascending ; 

While round the board, with festal cheer, 
The summer day is ending. 

The dusky shades of night come o'er 
The landscape, softly creeping, 

And in this valley home, are all 

The loved ones sweetly sleeping. 



42 



KATIE. 

A SWEET young girl was Katie 
With brow serenely fair, 
And like the gold of sunset. 
Was the glow upon her hair. 

She used to spend the summer 
With her uncle Abner Gray, 
And there in fields and meadows 
She romped the hours away. 

Rob Gray was a bashful fellow, 
And afraid of all the girls, 
But loved his cousin Katie 
With her wealth of sunny curls. 

And thought of her when morning 
Kissed the hillsides with its beams. 
And roamed with her by starlight 
In the pleasant land of dreams. 
43 



Katie. 

She dearly loved to tease him, 
And oft with tairy tread 
Would snatch his hat and wear it 
In triumph on her head. 

While Rob, though slightly angered. 
The playful insult bore, 
As he felt no hat e'er rested 
On a fairer head before. 

But harvest now was ended. 
And husked the yellow corn ; 
The apples all were gathered. 
And summer birds were gone ; 

And soon the chill November 
With stormy days would come. 
When Kate must leave the country 
And seek her city home. 

"She must not go," Rob murmured 
One morning to himself; 
"I cannot, cannot spare her, 
The darling little elf." 

And now a laugh went ringing 
On the frosty morning air. 
As dainty hands were buried 
In his locks of curly hair. 

"You cannot spare me then, Rob," 
She said with quiet grace, 

44 



1 



Katie. 

As little roguish dimples 
Went eddying o'er her face. 

"I feel I love you, Katie, 
Far better than you know ; 
And can you love me, darling?" 
She coyly answered "no." 

But Robert knew her meaning, 
And — well, I will not say — 
I only know, next Autumn 
They called her Katie Gray. 

And now the dear old homestead, 
With hoarded memories sweet. 
Is cheerful with the pattering 
Of little roguish feet. 

And in the purple twilight. 
As fades the lingering day, 
A golden head is resting 
On the cheek of Abner Gray. 



45 



THE TRYST OF COLLEGE DAYS. 

Written for the Psi. U. Song Book. 

The midnight oil is burning low, 
The moon climbs upward in the skies, 
The evening star-lamps softly glow 
Like far off angel eyes. 

Chorus. Then, brothers, raise a parting song, 
And let the strain float gaily on. 
While we the chorus loud prolong, 
Psi. U., Psi. Upsilon. 

We'll gather here from week to week, 
A firm and ever faithful band, 
Our mystic watchword oft to speak, 
With grasp of friendly hand. 
46 



The Tryst of College Days. 

Whene'er our chosen badjie we see 
In soHtude or crowded mart, 
The stranger shall a brother be, 
And heart shall speak to heart. 

And when we wander, wear}- men. 
Along the cold world's rugged ways, 
In fancy we will keep again 
The tryst of college days. 



47 



FISHING FOR POUTS. 

Young Jemmy Flynn is often seen 
Arranging "fish-pole," line, and hook, 
To spend a pleasant evening hour 
In catching pouts at Landham Brook. 

His pipe well loaded, off he starts 
Across the fields in tuneful mood ; 
The robin hears his cheerful song 
And answers from a neighboring wood. 

He w^aits not long to feel a bite. 
But lets him nibble just once more. 
And then with steady laboring pull 
He lands a lusty pout on shore. 

And ere the village bell strikes nine, 
There lies beside him on the ground 
A famous catch of horned pouts. 
In weight at least a dozen pound. 

48 



i 



Fishing for Pouts. 

He strings them quick and starts for home 
Along the dark uncertain way, 
But stops a Httle while beside 
An ancient stack of meadow hay, 

To smoke his pipe and think of home 
And Biddy dear in Donegal 
But hears again her crv "Ye'll see 
Me niver more at all, at all." 

He smiles at thought of Biddy's love, 
And rubs with joy his fists once more, 
For well he knows her heart was won 
By pounding rivals, near a score. 

With sweet old Ireland in his thouofhts 
Our hero starts for home again. 
The dog bays loud, he hears the tramp 
Of Jemmy coming up the lane. 

The farm-house reached, he enters quick 
And strikes a light his catch to view, 
Then seeks his bed and soon in sleep 
Forgets his pouts and Biddy too. 



49 



GRANDMOTHER'S GARDEN. 

A SUNNY spot of boyhood's years 
Was Grandma's garden olden ; 

Its fragrance rare comes floating back 
O'er forty summers golden. 

I see the yellow marigold, 
The fringed "chiny-aster," 

And morning-glories pink and red 
And white, like alabaster. 

The peony, with wealth of bloom, 
The patch of striped grasses. 

The four-o'clocks and London prides, 
And pinks in fragrant masses. 

The lilac, standing by the door, 

Was one of that collection. 
And always showed a wealth of bloom 

In time of "Old Election." 
50 



Gra n dm o th c r^s Ga rdc n . 

The poppy, too, was not forgot, 
Nor crimson prince's feather ; 

Oh, what a swamp of beauty rare 
Was growing up together! 

And, when the early blossoms came 

Our garden patch adorning, 
How joyfully I watched for them 

Each fragrance-laden morning! 

All through the long, bright summer days 

It proved a home of pleasure 
For humming-birds and butterflies 

That sought its hidden treasure. 

But she who planted them is gone 
Where bright ones greet the comer, 

And where the flowers richly bloom 
Through one eternal summer. 



SI 




IN THE OLD BARN. 



Upon the old barn's scaffold high, 
With dreamy gaze on fragrant bed, 

I watch the swallows come and cfo 
With twitt'ring notes above my head. 

52 



In the Old Barn. 

Without, upon the half-shut door, 
The Phoebe sits in silent mood, 

Prospecting tor a place to build 
Her nest and rear her quiet brood. 

The hens upon the seedy floor 

Are scratching for the scattered grain ; 
While chanticleer a challeno-e hears 

And answers back in deaf'ning strain. 

Old Charley, in the stall below, 
Keeps grinding at the clover hay, 

And tries with many an angry stamp 
To drive the saucy flies away. 

But hark! a pleasant sound I hear, 
Of children coming down the lane; 

And now they strive with flying feet 
To see who lirst the barn will o-ain. 

A gush of laughter greets my ears. 
As up the ladder, lithe and gay. 

They come to seek for hidden eggs, 
And Irolic on the fragrant hay. 

The little rogues are wild with joy, 
At finding father's hiding place. 

And thus my pleasant day dream ends, 
With smoth'ring kiss and fond embrace. 



53 



THE DROUGHT OF 1873. 

September parched and dry comes in ; 
I wonder if 'twill ever rain ; 
Thank God for crowded barns of hay 
And fields of early ripening grain ! 

But later crops are looking slim, 
The corn fields all are dry and sere, 
But little water in the wells, 
For drought, this is the century year. 

In memory of the aged ones 
The like before was never seen ; 
Each morning comes with cloudless sky 
Each setting day seems more serene. 

Dear Lord, pour down upon the earth, 
Abundant showers once again, 
And fill the springs and river banks 
Before the winter months set in. 
54 



The Drought of iSyj. 

And make the pastures smile once more 
With verdure of a spring-like hue ; 
May grassy slopes again make glad 
Our eyes with glistening morning dew! 

But see! a tiny cloud appears 
Upon the starry face of night, 
Not larger than the one of yore 
Beheld at sea from Carmel's height. 

The sky is quickly overcast, 
And sounds are heard of coming rain ; 
The little brooks awake and run 
With singing down the hills again. 

The parched earth drinks deep, long draughts, 
Until her thirst is satisfied, 
And then her overflowing store 
Is sent to swell the river's tide. 

But, while the good Lord often frowns. 
How sweet the thought and how sublime, 
That never will he once forget 
The promised seed and harvest time. 



55 



PAUL BROWN. 

They tell us of a graceless scamp, 

A good old Deacon's son, 
Who bore the christian name of Paul, 

But christian worth had none ; 
Whose chief delight outside of wine 
Was "cutting up" some wicked shine. 

The parson used occasion'ly 

To make a friendly call, 
But always deemed it wise to keep 

A special eye on Paul ; 
Unless he did, you're safe to bet, 
He never left without regret. 

One night the Deacon went to town 

Upon his old white mare ; 
And, after dark, by "County Road," 
56 



Paul Brozvn. 

Paul watched with fiHal care. 
The road was not so very wide, 
And birches grew on either side. 

He tied the tops across the way, 

To clear the horse's head. 
Then waited till he plainly heard 

The old nag's measured tread ; 
"Git up, old White," said Deacon Brown; 
She did "git up," but he got down. 

"Whoa, whoa!" he cried, as firmly clung 

The stirrups to his boots ; 
The old mare thought the plough, no doubt. 

Had run against some roots ; 
She pulled, and down with awkward fall 
Went Deacon, saddle-bags, and all. 

Dread silence reigned ; the Deacon, sure, 

Was thinking of the lurch ; 
Then breathed he out a hasty speech 

That wouldn't do in church ; 
But, on reflection, stroked his chin. 
While Paul kept shady, holding in. 

The Deacon with his traps was soon 

Completely out of sight ; 
While Paul crept after, cautiously. 

To see that all was right ; 
Then stealing by, he homeward sped, 
And hastily retired to bed. 
57 



Paid Broxun. 

The Deacon came and fiercely knocked 

Upon the kitchen door ; 
Then Hstened for his sleepy son, 

And plainly heard him snore; 
Then knocked again, and still again, 
Until his knuckles throbbed with pain. 

A window opened just above, 

And plainly peered in view 
The head of Paul, with yawning words, 

"Why, father, is it yeou?" 
"It is, my son, jest strike a light. 
And I will tether out Old White." 

Next morning after chores were done. 

And men went off to hoe, 
The clothes-line held a Sunday suit, 

All mud from "top to toe;" 
And, as the dame the garments viewed, 
She wondered how he got so "slewed." 



1 



58 



OUR LITTLE BOY. 

He came to us in spring-time, 
When snow was on the hills, 

Before the melting south-wind 
Had waked the sleeping rills ; 

While from the stately elm above 

The bluebird lent his song of love. 

And at the hour of sunset, 
Across the western sky, 

Was flung a crimson banner 
With fringe of deepest dye; 

As if to celebrate with joy 

The advent of our darling boy. 

To-day with lisping accents, 
He climbs upon my knee, 

And makes himself, as usual. 
With hair and whiskers free. 

And with his dimpled finger tries 

To fathom depths witin my eyes. 

59 



Our Little Boy. 

He sometimes plays the artist, 

As frequently are seen 
The daintiest of hand prints 



Upon my linen clean ; I 



At other times I hear his steps 
Beside my coat in search of "peps." 

Though much of care he gives us, 

How sweet it is to think, 
Between us and the angels. 

Of this connecting link; 
And ponder oft, how lovingly 
Our Saviour spake of such as he. 



I 



\ 



60 



THEN AND NOW. 

THEN. 

Through the lane and round the hill, 
Loitering in the shadows cool, 
Little Daisy Lee and I 
Wended oft our way to school. 

In the brush, "Che wink" we heard 
And the songster still I see 
Chanting on a bended limb, 
His sweet wood-notes, "Chip-u-chee." 

Perched on reed, the bobolink, 
In his suit of holiday, 
Sang his cheery song of home. 
Hid beneath a tufted spray, 

Where his mate in silence sat 
All the day in grasses cool ; 
6i 



Then and yozi'. 

Ot't we viewed their mottled eggs 
As we journeved home from school. 

NOW. 

All along the meadow path, 
Winding bv the old brown mill, 
Roses wild and elder bloom 
Linger with their tragrance still. 

As I near the alder-brook 
Where the rustic bridge once stood, 
Daisv loiters bv the brink. 
Ripened now to womanhood. 

Near me plavs her little girl. 
With a rinorincr laugh so sweet. 
As the circling waves she makes 
Kiss m}- Harry's dimpled feet. 

Now their lips together press ; 
Daisv. on the other shore, 
Thinks the picture not unlike 
A picture forr\- years before. 



62 



IN MY HAMMOCK. 

Gently bring, 

As I swing 
In my hammock free, 

Pleasant dreams 

Cheered by a;leams 
From blest Araby. 

Clings the vine 

To the pine, 
Hanging gracefully, 

Coos the dove 

Perched above, 
In a mournful key. 

In the air. 
Free from care. 
Float the swallows high ; 
63 



/;/ my Hammock. 

Seeking food 
For their brood 
In the deep blue sky. 

Fevered brain 

Freed from pain 
In the cooHng shade ; 

Fanned by air 

Filled with rare 
Odors from the glade. 

Plaints of jay 

All the day 
Fall upon my ear, 

While his mate 

Sits sedate 
In the birches near. 

Blessed sleep 

Soft and deep 
Comes with pleasant dreams, 

As I glide 

Down the tide 
Lulled by tinkling streams. 



64 



AUTUMN. 

The joyous Autumn comes, at last, 

With her attendant train ; 
She brings the apple, pear, and grape, 

And tields of golden grain. 

Upon the fresh-mown meadow lot, 

The lark, with lifted head. 
Is watching with a steady gaze 

The sportsman's stealthy tread. 

While blackbirds, gathered into flocks, 

And thick on every hand, 
Are foraging in stubble fields 

Along the meadow land, 

Preparing for a flying trip, 
When morning skies are fair. 

To reedy swamps and wild rice fields 
That fringe the Delaw^are. 
65 



Autnnin. 

The nuts, now ripe, are waiting for 

The frosty-fingered night. 
To burst their prison cells, and bathe 

In Autumn's mellow light. 

October comes, and wooded hills 

Are decked in gay attire, 
With here a fleck of crimson hue, 

And there, of sunset fire. 

The landscape stretching down the vale 

With joy my bosom fills ; 
Its tintings all are beautiful, 

But glory crowns the hills. 



1 



66 







THE ROBINS HAVE COME. 



The robins have come! the robins have cornel 
In trees on the hillsides warm they sing, 

And soon will be heard the drowsy hum 
Of insect life in the genial spring. 
67 



Tlic Robins Haze Come. 

The robins have come! and the pansies lift 
Their soft bright eyes to the golden light, 

While snowdrops, beside the lingering drift, 
Unfold their petals of purest white. 

The robins have come! and the farmers again 
Are thinking of grounds they soon will plough, 

And fields of ripening grass and grain 

Garnered and safe on the high-piled mow. 

They come, and the orchards with melody fill, 
While Grandmother's eyes are moist with tears, 

As she totters along to the window sill 
To gaze on the pets of her early years. 

She's thinking of Philip, in youth so strong, 
And when he made her a happy bride. 

And she hears again the sad, sweet song. 
The morning that little Rachel died. 

The robins have come! and tenderly bring 

The glad recollections of years that are gone; 

When seeking for trailing arbutus in spring. 
We heard their sweet carols at earliest dawn. 



68 



MEMORIES. 

We sit in the evening shadows, 

My darHng wife and I, 
And talk the dear past over, 

Beneath an April sky ; 
And memories sweet their treasures bring. 
As time flits by on rapid wing. 

'Tis eighteen years in Summer, 

Since we began, my wife. 
To journey on together 

Adown the slope of life ; 
And pattering feet have cheered the way; 
God grant they ne'er may go astra}'! 

But have you thought, my darling, 

As still we journey on. 
That life's short year is fleeting — 

Our summer almost gone? 
69 



Aleinon'cs. 

May many days from sorrow free 
In golden autumn wait for thee. 

And should our lives be lengthened 

Into a green old age, 
O may we both remember 

The heavenly heritage! 
Then parallel our paths will be, 
Through all the blest eternity. 



70 



GRANDMOTHER. 

I SEE her in the old arm-chair 

With tall cap snowy white, 
And fires light up her antique spec's 

As gleam the embers bri^iht. 

Her evening work lies near, of which 

She seldom seems to tire ; 
And many an Indian legend tells. 

Beside the kitchen fire. 

She knits and nods and drops to sleep, 
And, through a golden haze. 

Sees childhood's home in happy dreams, 
And friends of childhood's days. 

One morning, — 'twas the month of May,- 

The air was clear and chill, 
When peering westward, she exclaimed, 

"Wachusett, dear old hill!" 
71 



Grandmother. 

And glad tears gathered in her eyes, 

As rapt with keen dehght, 
She viewed this landmark of her youth 

With joyous second sight. 

She loved the birds and fragrant flowers, 

With joys they ever bring; 
And always watched with longing eyes 

For earliest bloom of spring. 

She often clasped me to her breast 
And smoothed my flaxen hair, 

While thinking of her own dear boy 
Whose head once rested there. 

In sunset-land afar she sleeps, 
Where flowers above her bow ; 

She has no need of second sight, 
To view the old hill now. 



72 



( 



MADELINE. 

Pretty blue-eyed Madeline, 
Singing in a minor key, 
Underneath a needled pine 
Close beside the sounding sea ; 
Hear I still those notes divine, 
Of my playmate Madeline. 

Oft we soucrht the violets blue, 
In the freshness of the morn ; 
Kissed our feet the pearly dew ; 
Sang the robin on the thorn ; 
Sings he still as oft I pine 
At the grave of Madeline. 

Thus I saw her long ago, 
In the flush of girlhood's prime ; 
"Years they come and years they go," 
73 



Madeline. 

Still the picture, toned by Time, 
Hangs within my cloistered heart, 
Haloed with a mystic art. 

In the bracing Autumn days, 
Oft the sere and yellow leaf, 
Eddying through a golden haze, 
Whispers of an early grief, 
As it nestles where the vine 
Clasps the grave of Madeline. 



I 



74 



THE BUTTERFLY AND ANT. 

A BUTTERFLY with painted wings, 
While sipping from the nectar springs 
Of rarest field and garden flowers, 
Saw, toiling through the summer hours, 
A neighboring Ant whom well she knew, 
And thus commenced an interview. 

"O how I pity you, my friend. 
Compelled a toilsome life to spend, 
Who scarcely see in all your days 
What I behold in one short gaze! 
For weeks I've roamed through fields of air 
And sipped my food from blossoms rare, 
And, when the dew begins to fall, 
Beneath a leaf I safely crawl. 
Or underneath a mossy wall." 
75 



The Bnttcrfy and An/. 

"Your pity, friend," the Ant replied, 
"I do not need, nor vision wide 
To give me happiness complete, 
Nor care I for ^-our nectar sweet ; 
A pastoral life I long have led. 
My herds of aphides o'erhead 
Yield me a beverage sweet and pure 
Enough to tempt an epicure." 

Just then a kingbird flying bv 
Seized ruthlessly the Butterfly, 
But, sated with the food of spring. 
He dropped her with a broken wing. 
No more to soar through fields of air. 
But doomed her neighbor's lot to share. 

Strange parallels in life we find 
Amid the strifes of human kind ; 
To-day, abroad with "coach and four," 
Anon, "the wolf is at the door;" 
On every turn of fortune's wheel 
Depends our future woe or weal ; 
Then ne'er despise a sun-browned hand,- 
The pride and hope of every land. 



76 



JESSIE EARLE. 

A PICTURE comes of the long ago, 

And a little girl I see 
Of beauty rare, sweet Jessie Earle ; 
Her white brow flecked with many a curl, 

And her laugh as full of glee 
As the brooklet's, in its playful flow 

Through woodlands to the sea. 

Her pleasant home is nestled still 

Beneath an old elm tree, 
Where bright birds build their nests in spring. 
And cheer the eve with flashing wing, 

In the leaty drapery ; 
And still is heard the robin's trill, 

So dear to her and me. 

Her mother died ere Jessie knew 
A parent's tender care ; 

77 



ycss/c Earlc. 

And gloom still clouds the father's brow, 
As memories come of Edna Howe — 

A wife of beauty rare — 
In a casket strewn with violets blue 

One early spring-day fair. 

Another name now marks the door, 
But under the same old tree 

Is often seen a fair-haired girl 

So like my playmate, Jessie Earle, 
That in a reverie, 

I call to mind the days of yore 
So precious still to me. 



78 



THE FIRESIDE DREAM. 

One night, while in my easy-chair 

Beside the hearth-stone bright, 
A sweet young face with dreamy eyes 
From out the embers seemed to rise 
With crown of rosv Hght. 

It smiled a moment, then dissolved 
Like fleecy clouds at morn ; 

But the fair image memory kept ; 

In her dim aisles it safely slept 
Till many years had gone. 

■s -s -X- -s ■» * 

The wasting night-lamp dimly burned, 

And hushed the lonely room. 
While from some tome of ancient lore 
I read strange stories o'er and o'er. 
Regardless of the gloom, 
79 



The Fireside Dream. 

When, through the dusky silence stole 

The fairy of my dream, 
With rippling fall of soft brown hair. 
And smooth, white brow, serene and fair, 

And eyes that e'en now seem 

Like stars that gem the quiet sky 

When summer twilight fades. 
And o'er some distant purple height 
The moon holds up her beacon Hght 
Amid the deep'ning shades. 

The vision vanished as it came. 

But in my haunted heart 
That phantom presence, ever near. 
Made home a refuge doubly dear, 

And seemed of life a part. 



The deep-toned village bell pealed forth 

A merry wedding chime ; 
The fields were flushed with flowers of June, 
And bright bees hummed a drowsy tune 

Amid the sweet wild thyme. 

As from the white-walled country church, 

I led a blushing bride ; 
Her face was such as long ago 
Had smiled in vision through the glow 

Of home's dear "ingle-side." 
80 



The Fi reside Dream. 

Long years have come and gone since then, 

And, in my easy-chair, 
While gazing on the wood-fire bright 
Which throws stray gleams of ruddy light 

Athwart my wife's brown hair, 

With other memories, I recall 

The vision-face of yore, 
And as I meet my darling's eyes, 
I murmur as the glad tears rise, 

"It is a dream no more!" 



8i 
















THE PLOUGHBOY. 



Across the field, in early spring, 
The merry Ploughboy plods along ; 

His bare feet press the cool brown sod. 
And echoing hills repeat his song. 

Behind him, in the furrows broad, 
The robin seeks, with vision keen, 
82 



The Ploiighboy. 

Each dainty morsel turned to view, 
For nestlings on the village green. 

The bluebird on a poplar near 

Is softly warbling notes of Spring, 

And now he hangs, an azure star. 
Above the moth with painted wing. 

And, while the panting oxen rest 

Where shadows fall in noontide heat. 

The Ploughboy seeks the old red jug. 

And drinks the home brewed beverage sweet. 

Then spreads his luncheon on the grass, — 

A healthtul but a homely fare, — 
And eats it with a relish keen. 

Sharp-whetted by the country air. 

Thus plods he on till evening hours. 
Then seeks his home in twilio-ht ""rav. 

Where fireside cheer and pleasant dreams 
Refresh him for another day. 



83 



REVERIES. 

I LOVE in summer time to sit 

Beneath a shady tree, 
And watch the misty sails that come 

And go far out at sea, 
And think of perils of the deep, 

Encountered day by day, 
To speed the wings of commerce o'er 

The ocean's broad highway. 

I love, in morning's dewy hours. 

To watch the rising sun, — 
That grand old painter as he tints 

The hillsides, one by one, 
Till all the wide-spread landscape 

Seems aglow with golden light, 
Lit up by flashing diamond drops, — 

The jewels of the night. 
84 



Reveries. 

I love the cool, deep meadow spring, 

With trincre of ferns and ci'ass, 
And often note the clouds that o'er 

Its mirrored surface pass, 
And think of brimming cisterns, whence 

These ceaseless waiters flow 
Through all the year, in storm and drought 

And Winter's reign of snow. 

I love to hear the pattering rain 

Upon the moss}' roof, 
And watch the busy spider while 

Adjusting warp and woof, 
And dream of days and years agone, 

When on the high-piled hay 
We passed with mirth and song the hours 

Of man}- a rainv dav. 

I love, how well, that early home, 

Its orchard slopes and law^n ; 
The river on whose fertile banks 

Waved tields of Indian corn. 
And densely wooded hills beyond, 

With valleys deep and dark. 
Where in the frosty autumn nights 

We heard the foxes bark. 

Ah, halcyon days forever gone! 

Yet, in my memory still 
They come and go in sweet review, 

So often, at my will, 

85 



Reveries. 

That I grow young in thinking of 
Those lengthened hours of joy, 

And often wake from pleasant dreams 
With feelings of a boy. 



86 



REUNION POEM. 

Read at the Reunion of the First Settlers of 
Fairmount and Hyde Park, May 15th., i! 

Again, in memory, I go back 

To pleasant days of old, 
When Autumn tinged these vales and hills 

With crimson and with gold. 
And "foxes dug their holes unscared" 

On wooded hillsides bold. 

Not long before, a Yankee, from 

The Granite Hills, came down 
In search of fame and fortune, but 

Obtained a wide renown. 
By choosing this romantic spot 

To build a model town. 
87 



Reunion Poem. 

He plainly saw, on these green hills 

And waving fields elysian, 
A stately city rise to view 

As in prophetic vision ; 
And soon a score of men were found 

Who joined in his decision. 

You know the rest ; since sturdy men 
That first day's stillness broke, 

Has rung through all these busy years 
The hammer's rapid stroke, 

And curled in morning's quiet hours 
The cotter's cheerful smoke. 

The home of Goldsmith never rose 

Before his longing eyes. 
More beautiful than this dear spot, 

Which still in memory lies, 
Hemmed in by woods and sloping hills 

And richly tinted skies. 

My thoughts go back to rambles, when 
The pleasant moonlight's gleam 

Lay sleeping on the bosom of 
Your gently flowing stream. 

Whose crystal depths, in evening hours, 
With countless star-lamps beam. 

You ask the record of these years, 

So soon forever gone ! 
In them Rebellion's wicked hand 
88 



Reunion Poem. 

Her bloody sword has drawn ; 
In them to the benighted slave 
Has come a glorious dawn. 

Within these years our favored land 
Has wondrous progress shown ; 

Her railroads stretch from sea to sea, 
Her wires thread every zone, 

And tiny western hamlets have 
To mammoth cities grown. 

But some who mingled with us then, 
Alas! have gone before, — 

Sailed o'er the waters of that sea 
Which laves a shininor shore, — 

And found, I trust, a welcome in 
That land forevermore. 



89 



THE FOREST. 

How blessed is the gift to man 

Of woodlands wild, whose breezes fan 

My fevered cheeks in summer hours, 

As oft I seek their grateful bowers, 

To spend a day of quiet rest, 

In cool, deep aisles, where none molest. 

On bed of softest mosses brow'n. 
In blissful ease I sit me down, 
Where forest herbage fresh and rare 
With grateful perfume fills the air; 
And bright birds sing with happy song 
A lullaby, the whole day long. 

Above, the busy squirrel weaves 
In chestnut tall his nest of leaves; 
While in an opening to the sky 
90 



The Forest. 

A white-winged cloud is sailing by, 
But, ere it leaves my narrow view, 
Is all dissolved in misty blue. 

A greeting falls upon my ear 

Of liquid music, sweet and clear ; 

For, near me in the shadows cool, 

A cascade drops into a pool. 

With silvery skein of waters sweet, 

Whose spray makes damp my rustic seat. 

And there the trout with colors gay 
Are seen through all the summer day ; 
A painted moth comes to explore ; 
With dip of wing her flight is o'er ; 
A circling wavelet left, is all 
To tell the stor}- of her fall. 

And thus from morn till dewy night 
I revel in a sweet delight. 
Till, through the purple twilight's frown, 
The stars like angel-eyes look down. 
And then I homeward wend my way, 
With memories of a blessed day. 



91 



1 

I 



I 



MIDSUMMER HAYING. 

"Come, John, get up and milk the cows, 
Then turn them in the meadow-lot. 
And just at night be sure and think 
To bait them in the clover-plot. 

"At ten o'clock, or when the dew 
Is fully oft', if sky is fair, 
Spread out the hay that's tumbled up, 
And turn it over once with care. 

•'Frank, you and I will grind the scythes, 

While Charles and Mike unload the hay, 

And Pomp may help with nimble feet 

To stow it carefully away." % 

The sun now rising clear and red 
Is peering through an amber cloud. 
While swarthy mowers oft lift up 
The merry whetstone chorus loud. 
92 



Mids uin ui c r Ha v nig. 

A broad highway across the fields 
These stalwart haymen soon have made, 
And with each sturdy stroke in time 
The smoking herdsgrass low is laid. 

A clean-cut swath is Farmer Ben's, 
The widest in the country round, 
Nor smoother shave of mowing-land 
Can anywhere about be found. 

The welcome dinner-horn now breaks 
The stillness of the summer noon ; 
And men and boys in hurrying home 
Are whistling manv a merrv tune. 

The meal partaken, rest is sought 
Awhile within the cooling shade. 
Where songs are sung and stories told. 
And manv boyish pranks are played. 

The nooning passed, some store the hay 
While others seek the field again, 
Where windrows serpent-like are formed 
Behind the white-sleeved husbandmen. 

The sun is dropping fierv red 
Adown the western slope of day, 
And many a plain and meadow near 
Is tented with the new-mown hay. 

Anon, in winding lanes, are seen 
The toiling oxen, moving slow 

93 



Midstcmiiicr Haying. 

With giant loads of fragrant hay, 
Emblazoned with the sunset glow. 

I 

As silently the night steals on, 
The twinkling star-lamps, one by one, 
Are lighted in the summer sky. 
Denoting reign of sleep begun. 



I 



94 



THE YELLOW WASP'S NEST. 

"Begorra, look at Mike!" cries Pat: 
"He's drivin' somethin' from his eyes: 
"Mike, what's the throuble?" " Throuble. sure 
An' don't ye see these yiller flies?" 

With flying hav, he fills the air 
While smarting from their keen abuse, 
And with the fiery, stinging pain 
St. Patrick's name is much in use. 

"But don't ve know a hornet, Mike?'' 
" An' is it yiller wasps ve mean?" 
And darts beneath a havcock near. 
Where all of him but head is seen. 

While thinking of his safe retreat 
He feels his lips and nose enlarge ; 
The enemy in hot pursuit. 
Assail him in another charge. 
95 



The TcUozv Hasp's Xest. 



r\^ 










"Oh! murther! murther!" loud he cries, 
"Oh! Howly Virgin, hale me guilt! 
Och, Patrick! drive the bastes away 
Or I shall be intirely kilt." 

While lingering in his hiding-place. 
He marvels at his nose and lips ; 
But on emerging darkness reigns. 
As both his eyes are in eclipse. 

He handles with the tenderest care 
His swollen organs o'er and o'er; 
"An' sure*' he savs, "I've niver known 
Me fatures grow so fast before." 

With bathing soon the lumps go down, 
And Michael sees once more the sky, 
But makes fast time whenever sounds 
The "Yellow-iacket's" battle-cry. 



96 



SONG OF THE FROGS. 

The pipings of the frogs I hear, 
Through all the night so shrill and clear, 
Glad heralds of the queen of Spring, 
Who comes her bounteous gifts to bring, 
With singing birds and sweet perfume 
Exhaled from generous apple bloom. 

Peep-peep, no sleep, peep-peep, peep-peep, 
Wee minstrels of the swampy deep ; 
Reminders of the cowslip's home. 
Where oft my young feet used to roam, 
By meadow brooks, to homeward bring 
This golden gift of early spring. 

How oft has proved the song, peep-peep, 

A lullaby for boyhood's sleep. 

When tired with rambling throufrh the woods, 

97 



Soui^' of tJic Frogs. 

Where oft in deepest solitudes, 

By stumps festooned with vine and plum, 

We stopped to hear the partridge drum. 

And. wlien half lost in dreamy sleep, 
How pleasino- is the song, peep-peep, 
As fancy takes me back once more 
Beneath the raftered roof of yore, 
To hear above my cot again 
The patter of the April rain. 

x\nd thus through all the hours of night, 
Till morning comes with roseate light. 
The frogs their tireless vigils keep, 
Whose drowsy, tinkling notes, peep-peep. 
Come floating on the perfumed air — 
A solace sweet for every care. 



98 



THE CONVALESCENT. 

He breathes the incense of the morn 
In dewy fields and pastures green ; 
Where at the earliest flush of dawn, 
The red fox oft by him is seen, 
Steahng along a belt of wood, 
The home of deepest solitude. 

He hears the click of opening cones. 

While underneath a monarch pine; 

And lists to pleasing monotones, 

As winds sweep through the needles tine. 

Beneath, a carpet, russet brown, 

Ott lures him from the noisy town. 

The cordial of the woods and fields 
Makes all his pulses thrill anew ; 
His malady with promptness yields, 
99 



The Convalescent. 

And cheeks take on a ruddy hue ; 

His flaccid hands grow hard and warm, 

And all his limbs round into form. 

His health regained, he delves again 
In deepest mines of ancient lore, 
Discov'ring rare and sparkling gems 
Of thought unknown to him before ; 
With health, new beauties ever rise 
To cheer each day his waiting eyes. 



lOO 



UNCLE NATHAN. 

There is no happier man in town, 
Than Uncle Nathan May, — 

How different from Caleb Brown, 
Who lives across the way ; 

With one, the sky is always bright, 

With Caleb, nothing's ever right. 

He grumbles when he ploughs his helds, 
And sows them with a doubt, 

And prophesies till blade appears 
The seed will never sprout ; 

In drought, he never fails to fret, 

And always grumbles when 'tis wet. 

"We're goin' to have a hay-day, sure," 

Said Uncle Nathan May, 
One morning, just as early dawn 

lOI 



Uncle JVat/?an. 

Was struggling into day, 
"Sich heavy dews in mornin's prime 
x\re follered by a dryin' time." 

"I doubt it very much," said Brown, 

"For last night, Colonel Lane 
Commenced to mow^ his meadow lot, 

Which always brings a rain ; 
And mackerel clouds half veiled the sky, 
Which leaves the earth not three days dry," 

Though doomed through all his life to dwell 

Within an humble cot, 
Yet Uncle Nathan ne'er was heard 

To grumble at his lot ; 
Nor does he ever tail to bear 
His thanks to God, each day in prayer. 

No home a warmer welcome gives, 

And neighbors never tire 
Of dropping in to spend an hour 

Beside his evening fire, 
And children watch with faces bright 
For his return from work at night. 

In Spring, when planting-time is o'er, 

He waits the genial rain. 
And never doubts that harvest days 

Will bring the ripening grain ; 
A trusting faith to him is given. 
With hope that anchors sure in heaven. 

I02 



HALCYON DAYS. 

Alas! how changed my early home, 
Beside that swiftly flowing stream, 
Whose farther shore a green hill meets. 
And mirrors through the wavelet's gleam! 

The water-fall's sweet hum is heard, 
As in the sunny days of yore ; 
But cot and happy household band, 
Alas! alas! are there, no more. 

No longer in the wintry days 
The ruddy fire-light brightly shines, 
But, o'er the tiles of broken hearth. 
Creep noxious weeds and tangled vines. 

While musing on those early years. 
It scarcely seems to me a day 
Since, on that fair, secluded spot, 
I played the pleasant hours away. 
103 



Halcyon Days. 

I see the pearly spring within 
The quiet orchard's shady nook, 
And lane that to the forest leads, 
Across the babbling, meadow brook, 

Where, 'mid the trembling poplar trees, 
I set, with skill, the hidden snare, 
And often bore in triumph home 
Some victim of my watchful care. 

On garden-gate again I swing, 
A fair-haired sister oft to please ; 
And as we journey to and fro 
Her tangled tresses catch the breeze. 

The house, the well, the aged trees. 
In glad review I see once more, 
And lilacs, that in spring-time bloomed 
Beside the dear old cottafje door. 

The dreamy hour of evening comes, 
And on the kitchen's paneled wall 
The cheerful fire-light flickers, as 
The deep'ning shadows thickly fall. 

The loved ones all are gathered in ; 
There's gladsome youth and manhood's prime, 
And with a captive ear I list 
To stories of the olden time. 

I see within his favorite nook, 
My father, with a thoughtful eye, 
104 



Halcyon Days. 

While mother, angel of the home, 
Is ever softly flitting by. 

But sadly changed is that old home, 
Since childhood's sunny days of yore, 
For cot and happy household band, 
Alas! alas! are there no more. 



105 



IN MEMORIAM. 

A Tribute to the Memory of Bro's Geo. W. Pratt 

AND Samuel Wesley Wood, Written for 

the Anniversary of the Xi Chapter 

OF THE Psi UpSILON FrATERNITY. 

Amid the ever-changing Hghts and shadows, 
That come and go along life's stormy track. 
We've seemed to hear a sweet voice softly calling, 
"Brothers, come back, again to us come back!" 

We're here, once more, at our old Alma Mater, 
We meet again the friends we met of yore, 
We hear familiar voices kindly speaking. 
And grasp the hands so often grasped before. 

But, even now, there is a death-knell ringing 
Through the hushed chambers of each manly heart, 
While music chants her sad and solemn dirges 
For the lost votary of her glorious art. 

1 06 



/;/ Mcmoriam. 

Mute is the lyre he swept with skilful fingers, 
And silent, too, the voice that charmed our ears, 
While the green laurel Fame for him had woven, 
Droops 'neath the baptism of affection's tears. 

And from our well-filled ranks we miss another, 
Who, in the golden glow of life's fair morn, 
Left us to go upon the holy mission 
Of pointing darkened souls to Hope's bright dawn. 

While she, who stood with him before the altar, 
And wore upon her brow the bridal crown, 
Bows her young head and weeps in deepest anguish. 
That she has seen her life's day-star go down. 

To light the lonely sepulchre's dark arches, 

The Eastern mourner hangs a lamp above ; 

So we'll illume their graves through all life's journey. 

With the soft star-light of a brother's love. 

And when our pilgrim feet shall cross the river 
Whose gloomv waters hide a radiant shore. 
May we not hope in that fair land to greet them. 
Where antxel chorus ceases nevermore. 



107 



SUNSHINE. 

Our little, restless, rollicking boy 
Is full of the mischief all day long ; 

Now he is breaking his last new toy, 
And now is singing a cradle-song. 

He pulls from his foot the dainty shoe. 

And, fixing upon it a tiny sail, 
With roseate lips and breath of dew 

He floats it across the water-pail. 

He comes at evening with weary feet 
To lisp his prayer and go to bed ; 

And soon is lost in a sleep so sweet, 
He seems a cherub by cherubs led. 

Rarest of jewels, our household joy, 

How will it be in the great world's strife? 

Good angels lead thee, my darling boy. 
Through pathways green to a higher life. 
1 08 



HAVE CHARITY. 

Why cast them off though stained with sin ; 

Temptation came in evil day ; 
Each has a soul to lose or win, 

Have charity, and ever pray. 

If he alone who has no stain 
Can only cast the primal stone, 

Our criminal courts would sit in vain. 
As proof of sin could ne'er be shown. 

The gentle word and kindly tear 
Are precious to the erring one; 

They sweeten life in sorrow's year, 
And gladden each revolving sun. 

If ever thus we gently deal. 

Nor spare the magic words of love. 

The wounds of sin may quickly heal, 
And many saved for worlds above. 
109 



SUSPENSE. 

I'm waiting for the railroad train 

With great anxiety, 
For wife and children ever dear, 
Who make my home, from year to year. 

A paradise for me. 

I'm waiting for the railroad train 

A full hour overdue ; 
I walk the platform, up and down, 
And try my rising fears to drown, 

But tears my cheeks bedew. 

I'm waiting for the railroad train, 

I list the welcome sound. 
But only hum of neighboring mill, 
And distant song of whippoorwill 

Upon my ears resound. 

I'm waiting for the train, and in 
Imagination see 

no 



Suspense. 

A frightful wreck, and everywhere 
Are hands upraised in wild despair; 
Extended pleadingly. 

I'm w'aiting for the tardy train, 

I hear the whistle shrill ; 
And now the engine's glowing light 
Illumes the track on left and right 

And makes my pulses thrill. 

I wait with joy the railroad train's 

Approach with stifled hum ; 
And now fond arms my neck entwine 
And dewy lips are pressed to mine ; 
The loved ones all have come. 



Ill 



PANTRY SCHOOL. 

I'm thinking of the schoolhouse, Ned, 

Where, sitting side by side, 
We studied Webster's spelling-book, 

And laughed o'er Gilpin's ride ; 
And traded jackknives now and then, 

When not engaged in play, 
And got our jackets nicely warmed, 

How often I'll not say. 

I'm thinking of the roadside green, 

Of every tree and nook. 
And how, in sultry hours of noon, 

We swam in Pantry Brook ; 
And, when upon the casement came 

The ruler's tattoo loud. 
How each of us in passing in 

Took off his hat and bowed. 

112 



Pantry School. 




I'm thinking of the benches rude, 

And desks so broad and steep, 
On which we left our autographs, 

In letters wide and deep ; 
And of my first new writing-book. 

Without a stain or spot. 
So soon adorned, on every page. 

With many an off-hand blot. 

I'm thinking of the "Old Slough," Ned, 

Whose waters dark and cool 
So often laved our sunburnt feet, 
113 



Pant?-)' School. 

While on the wa}' to school ; 
On whose warm rim the tadpoles lay, 

In spring-time, many a score. 
While golden lilies richly bloomed 

In summer, near the shore. 

Tm thinking of the forest hoar 

Where fir-trees densely grew, 
And tired feet in mosses sank, 

While hunting gum to chew ; 
And of the pleasant meadows, where, 

On many a scattered tree. 
The red-winged blackbird sang in spring. 

His love song, "Quonk-a-ree." 

Fm thinking of the hour-glass, Ned, 

With sands so white and fine. 
On which our teacher smiling gazed, 

As neared the hour to dine ; 
But feel my sands ar wasting, Ned, 

For oft the children say, 
While fondling them upon my knee, 

"Papa, you're growing gray." 



114 



CHILDHOOD'S THRONE, 

Though vacant is the old arm-chair, 

In memory's glass I often see 

A little boy with flaxen hair, 

And upturned face on Grandpa's knee. 

He lists to stories quaint and old, 
Of Crusoe's home in southern sea, 
Of Joseph by his brethren sold, 
While sitting on that loved one's knee. 

Though lightnings flash across the sky 
And angry clouds hang o'er the lea. 
He never thinks of danger nigh, 
When safe enthroned on Grandpa's knee. 

On that dear face he loves to gaze, 
But oft the scalding tear can see, 
As memories come of early days, 
When others sat upon his knee. 

115 



ChilhooiVs Throne. 

Dear mother! at the mention of 

Thy blessed name, there comes to me 

The sweet tiicught that, in childhood's 3^ear, 

You also sat on Grandpa's knee. 

The old arm chair is vacant still, 
Yet, oft in memory's glass, I see 
A dear old face lit up with smiles. 
While dandling loved ones on his knee. 



ii< 



THE PARTIAL JUDGE. 

A FABLE IN VERSE. 

In very ancient times, there came 
A Farmer to a Lawver's door, 

Expressing great concern of mind 
For what had happened just betbre. 

"•A bull of mine your ox has gored. 

Kind sir," the Farmer trembling spake, 

"And I should be most glad to know 
How I can reparation make." 

"Thou art an honest man," replied 

The Judge, "and will not, sure, decline 

To make a speedy settlement 
By giving me an ox of thine." 

"It is no more than justice," quoth 
The Farmer, "as I plainly see, — 

But I mistake, — It is voiir bull 
That's gored a costly ox for nie.'''' 
117 



The Partial yitdor. 

"Indeed! ahem!" the Judge repHed, 
"That alters very much the case; 

I must look into the aflair, 

And //^— " {h.^ said with puzzled face) 

"And //'" the Farmer sternly spake, 
"There would have been no ij] I tind, 

Had you in simple fairness let 

An equal justice rule your mind." 



ii8 



THE GENITING TREE. 

It stood beside an old gray wall 
Where eastward slopes the orchard-hill, 
Its crooked trunk and pensile boughs 
Of luscious fruit I see them still. 

There was the winding path we trod, 
Worn smooth by little sunburnt feet; 
In seeking fruit the codling moth 
Made ready in the July heat. 

And there, upon the mossy wall. 

We saw the squirrels go and come ; 

And often heard in thicket near 

The partridge beat his "throbbing drum." 

Full forty years have passed and now 
I seek again the dear old tree, 
But find a mouldering stump which brings 
A flood of memories back to me. 
119 



TJic Gcuiliii<j; Tree. 

The old oak grove near by remains, 
And scarlet tanagers are seen 
With flashing wings, and making still 
A pleasant contrast with the green. 

The nimble squirrel, too, is there, 
His highwa^' still the mossy wall ; 
And leaty homes are scattered here 
And there in oaks and chestnuts tall. 

But where are all the loved ones now 
Who played beneath the old tree then? 
Some passed for aye the "silent bourne," 
And some have grown to gray-haired men. 

Remembrance comes of one I loved 
Most dearly, who in early prime 
Set sail upon an unknown sea, 
With passport for a fairer clime. 

Still other recollections come. 
Of loved ones who, upon the stage 
Of life, have fought the battle w^ell, 
And lead a heavenly pilgrimage. 

When I shall moulder back to dust. 
May thoughts as sweet remain for me 
As I have cherished long for those 
Who played beneath the dear old tree. 



1 20 



ALBUM BRIEFLETS. 

The sea of life o'er which we ghde 

Is flecked with many a snowy sail, 

Some idly drifting down the tide, 

Some riding out the fearful gale ; 

May your bark glide with favoring breeze 

'Mid perfumed isles in sunny seas. 



My daughter, may this Album be 
A treasure ever dear to thee ; 
Reminding, as the years roll on. 
Of pleasant friends in days agone. 



Live so, my friend, that when life's sun 
Shall disappear in gathering gloom, 

The christian's hope may be a star 
To light your pathway to the tomb. 

121 



Album Brief lets. 

Guard well your thoughts, for they are heard 

In the celestial land, 
Through some unknown telegraphy 

That anirels understand. 



As, when the summer thunder storm 
Has passed and loitering cloud-bars lie. 
In purple beauty, crimson edged, 
Along the golden sunset sky. 
So, when your storms of life are o'er, 
May bright skies arch the other shore. 



When, in the coming years, you turn 
This Album's pages o'er and o'er, 

And scan with moistened eyes the names 
Of many loved ones gone before : 

Should mine among that number be, 
May one warm tear be shed for me. 



May Christmas bells ring out their cheer 
For you, my boy, through many a year, 
And greet you oft with merr}- chime, 
While journeying down the road of time. 



122 



ONWARD. 

Why falter, brother, by the way, 

Though rough the journey be ; 
To-morrow has a brighter day, 

Perhaps, awaiting thee : 
Up every rugged height we chmb. 

But one step waits us at a time ; 
Then onward, onward to the goal 

Nor think of e'er repining ; 
However dark the boding cloud. 

It has a silver linincf. 

Nor pause when starting, first to vieu- 
The toilsome journey o'er; 

The distant peaks of misty blue 
May dot a peaceful shore, 

And frowning hills may only screen 
The quiet valleys hid between ; 

12-1 



Onward. 

Then onward, brother, to the goal, 
Nor think of e'er repining, 

However dark the boding cloud. 
There is a silver lining. 



THE END. 



124 



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